Denial
by SarahMc
Summary: Lesgle worries about Joly on the barricades.


Title: Denial  
  
By: SarahMc - catwoman@merseymail.com  
  
Summary: Lesgle worries about Joly on the barricade. Meh.  
  
Genre: General  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Victor Hugo. Story belongs to me, though I'll probably deny any connection to it later on.  
  
Note: I stink at endings, I really do. And beginnings and middles, for that matter. But mostly endings. Also, Courfeyrac's part was originally written for Grantaire but tweaked when I remembered that R was unconscious at this point in the story. Which might go some way towards Courfeyrac's drinking habits in this fic.  
  
***  
  
Night was falling now. The rain splattered down on the barricade. If the mood managed to get any bleaker, it could only have been on the part of a concerted effort by some unknown deity. Bodies littered the ground and the threat of the National Guard hung in the air. The remaining revolutionaries huddled in whatever parts of the barricade they could find that were likely to give them any shelter at all. A few had considered going in the wine shop but an unspoken rule had deemed it out of bounds. No one wanted to see Monsieur Mabeuf's body. Nor did they want to have to speak to the traitor who was bound to the post. It was cold and it was wet and it didn't feel like June at all. Most of the students were trying to remember why they had come to the barricade.  
  
Somewhere, tucked away on the barricades, two men sat together. One had light brown, almost fair, hair that was too short to tie back but long enough to have been dishevelled by the wind. He had a slighter build than his companion and a small pair of wire framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He sat propped up against the other man, his head resting on the other's shoulder, an arm loosely encircling his waist. His companion was balding, slightly older and was apparently rather embarrassed by the smaller man's decision to take a nap in this position.  
  
BossuetLesgle sniffed irritably and shifted his position next to Joly. The younger man was dozing, if not already asleep, and he decided that now he could probably get up and stretch his legs. He couldn't stretch them for very long, mind, and he couldn't go very far if he was planning on keeping his head. It had been too long since the last attack, it was definitely worth being on his guard - knowing his luck, the gunfire would start the instant he poked his head up. He reached down and absently smoothed his friend's hair back into place. It would make no difference, he knew. Joly tossed and turned in his sleep and in minutes his hair would be just as messy as before. The action soothed him, though, as he knew it often soothed his friend.  
  
BossuetLesgle gently repositioned Joly so he was leaning against part of a table. He them removed the glasses and placed them on a small ledge standing conveniently close. He stood up and, keeping one eye on his friend, moved to another part of the barricade where Courfeyrac was sitting, glass in hand. Courfeyrac smiled amicably when he saw him.  
  
'Care for a drink, Eagle?'  
  
BossuetLesgle nodded thankfully and seated himself next to his friend. 'I see you're putting Chowder and Fricasee's stock to good use. When Grantaire comes around he'll be very disappointed to see how much you've deprived him of.'  
  
Courfeyrac grinned, 'what use is a wine shop if no one drinks the wine? It would be an insult to Bacchus himself if I were to let this go to waste. Here-' he splashed some of the dark red liquor into BossuetLesgle's glass, 'Enjolras has led us all into a death trap. If we had any sense we would never have followed him but since we're here we may as well kill what remaining senses we have.'  
  
BossuetLesgle responded with a limp nod and raised his glass as Courfeyrac offered a toast, 'to liberty, equality, fraternity and to getting out alive - all equally dismal prospects I should think.'  
  
They gulped down the wine and Courfeyrac poured some more out. 'So' he held his glass lazily in his hand, never keeping his eye off the bottle, 'how's life as the unluckiest man in Paris?'  
  
'I wouldn't know' LesgleBossuet smiled wanly, 'but being the unluckiest man in France is proving to be less difficult than I'd expected.'  
  
Courfeyrac nodded. 'Drink' he instructed, 'in all my years I've given myself that advice in times of anguish and it's never steered me wrong.'  
  
BossuetLesgle nodded for the third time and reached for the bottle, it was only after he'd downed two glasses that Courfeyrac's words sunk in. 'What do you mean by anguish?'  
  
'You're clearly in anguish, mon ami. One can tell by the your slumped shoulders, your forced smile, the fact that you're drinking such a cheap wine without so much as a whisper. Believe me, my friend. I know anguish and you are in anguish.'  
  
'How very perceptive.' Lesgle wasn't really in the mood to be lectured. Instead he forced a smile, 'But are you clever enough to figure out what I'm anxious about?'  
  
Courfeyrac tilted his head to one side, and thought for a moment. Finally he looked up, 'it can only be one thing' he declared grandly, rising to his feet, glass in hand - behaviour that caused BossuetLesgle to look anxiously about himself to make sure no one else was listening. Fortunately, most of the students were more concerned with the slightly more pressing task of staying alive than with listening to Courfeyrac's speeches. If the other man's hair was slightly longer and blonder and if his face wasn't etched with the good humour of alcohol and companionship, he may have almost been mistaken for Enjolras. As it was, he reminded Lesgle of Grantaire, a fact that Lesgle kept to himself.  
  
Courfeyrac continued, 'There is only one thing that could possibly cause the bald-headed Eagle to be anything less than his usual cheerful self. One element in his life that he considers worthy enough to wallow in self-pity over rather than simply laugh at. There is but one thing that he cares for in the way most of the fools here care for the republic. You, my friend, are clearly concerned about our young malade imaginaire.' Courfeyrac, confident in his proclamation, took a large gulp from his drink and sat down triumphantly.  
  
LesgleBossuet shrugged, 'surprisingly enough, you are correct.'  
  
'I'm always correct. Besides, what worries you about Joly? He seems perfectly well. He isn't injured, which is unusual for him, he isn't complaining - which is even more unusual - and the last time I saw him, he was asleep. A man is never happier than when he is in bed asleep.' He paused thoughtfully, 'except, perhaps, when he is in bed with a pretty grisette. So what's there to worry about? Enjoy what will undoubtedly be your last days with your friend.'  
  
'I can't' BossuetLesgle sighed, 'not when I know they truly will be our last days. Look at him - he still laughs, he still smiles. We will surely die here and he remains as gay as he ever was.'  
  
Courfeyrac shrugged 'what do you expect when you make so many jokes? If he were melancholy, you'd be sitting there complaining that he didn't find you amusing anymore. You think too much, Eagle. Now go back to your friend and be grateful that he isn't as miserable as you.'  
  
'Miserable indeed! I'm perfectly well. It's Adrian you ought to be concerned about.' Again his eyes flickered over to his sleeping friend, 'surely he can't expect to survive. What if he's only behaving like this so that I won't worry about him?'  
  
'The way I see it is thus; you can either go and ask him and find out what's wrong (despite the fact that this is clearly all in your mind). Or alternatively, you can sit here and drink my wine and get thoroughly incapacitated to the point that you won't be able to think about it. Either way, I recommend you do something other than sitting and whining - while our young friend can occasionally get away with it, that sort of attitude isn't suited to your nature.'  
  
BossuetLesgle regarded him thoughtfully, 'But' he said, 'you took that wine from the shop. It wasn't yours in the first place!' He grinned at Courfeyrac, 'I really ought to suppress your criminal tendencies and relieve you of that wine.' He made a playful dive for the bottle but Courfeyrac snatched it away. BossuetLesgle laughed.  
  
'Aha' Courfeyrac smirked, 'I see that your good humour is not completely gone. That is good, if your Adrian really is as badly off as you seem to think, it wouldn't help matters if he were to catch you moping about like this.'  
  
BossuetLesgle nodded. 'You're right' he admitted, 'I'll go and speak to him.'  
  
He rose decisively to his feet staring the barricades full in the face. He took two unsteady steps, steeled himself and finally collapsed back into his seat clutching his drink.  
  
'Bravo, Bossuet' Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow, 'an impressive attempt - but I'm afraid you went the wrong way.'  
  
BossuetLesgle fixed him with a mock glare, 'I'm going', he replied irritably, 'but I'm taking the scenic route.'  
  
***  
  
Joly's eyes opened and, when he realised that he really was awake and he really was at the barricades, immediately snapped shut again.  
  
He gave himself a few minutes to get to grips with this. After calming himself down, he forced his eyes open again. Squinting around the barricades, he suddenly realised what his problem was - or rather, problems. His spectacles were missing and, perhaps even more urgently, so was his friend.  
  
Joly floundered for a moment trying not to panic. He fought off the absurd notion that BossuetBossuet had made off with his spectacles and assumed that he must have taken them off before going to sleep. Thankfully, after fumbling around him, his hand chanced to fall upon smooth glass and a thin wire frame and he grasped what he assumed must have been his glasses. Hurriedly pushing them up onto the bridge of his nose, Joly calmed slightly.  
  
Good. That was a start. Now where was BossuetBossuet? He raised himself unsteadily onto his feet, finding that his body was stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle. He peered blearily through the pouring rain, trying to work out what exactly was happening. His mind was still hazy from sleep and he stumbled dizzily across the barricade.  
  
Suddenly a body shot across his line of vision, knocking him to the floor and falling with him. Joly cried out, more from shock than actual pain, as his head collided with the ground. He sat up, breathing heavily and attempting to makes sense of what was going on. His head spun wildly as he looked around frantically, trying to identify his attacker.  
  
'Easy, Jolllly!' the figure held up it's hands defensively. Joly first recognised the tricolour sash before realising that he knew his assailant.  
  
'Gavroche! What the devil do you think you're doing?'  
  
The gamin shrugged easily, ignoring Joly's obvious indignance at both being knocked over and then addressed by his nickname. 'You were wandering about the place like a lost rabbit. Don't you know where you are? If it weren't for me you might have been hit by a bullet!'  
  
Joly, who was slowly regaining command of his faculties, glanced around the barricade. 'Gamin,' he began, speaking in the manner one would use to address a particularly dim child, 'you may not have realised this but no one is shooting at us. Even one as prone to poor health as I am hardly about to be killed by a nonexistent bullet.'  
  
Gavroche stared at him for a few moments, 'that' he replied sternly, 'is the sort of attitude that causes people to get shot.' Seeing that Joly was apparently troubled, Gavroche abandoned his Enjolras impersonation and adopted the attitude of wisdom and concern he had often seen Combeferre use, 'you seem upset, citizen. What troubles you?'  
  
Joly blinked in confusion, 'nothing troubles me. I just woke up and I was wondering where I might find Bossuet.'  
  
Gavroche's face fell visibly. He jerked his head in the direction of Courfeyrac's table. 'Over there' he replied huffily, 'but may I warn you, young man, that drinking will not help our revolution. Enjolras himself said that drinking shames the barricade.'  
  
'Many thanks, Gamin,' Joly grinned and patted Gavroche affectionately on the head, a gesture that provoked an acidic glare from the boy. He started off again in search of BossuetLesgle. Gavroche scowled after him and muttered something under his breath about silly lovesick fools and how they shouldn't have been allowed to come to the barricade. He then wandered off in search of a bigger gun.  
  
***  
  
'Adrian!'  
  
BossuetLesgle smiled and raised his glass upon seeing Joly hurrying up to the table. Joly flashed a rueful smile at him and sat down between Lesgle and Courfeyrac.  
  
'Do you have any idea how worried I was?' he grinned at Lesgle, giving him a short embrace that seemed to calm his friend for some reason, 'honestly Bossuet, I haven't panicked like that since my last medical exam!'  
  
'If you were a normal student' Courfeyrac noted, 'one would think you were talking about an academic exam.'  
  
Bossuet laughed, 'of course, we know you better than that. I'm sorry to have worried you, mon ami.'  
  
'And so you should be' Joly replied, completely failing to sound indignant, 'I think I've got a cold coming on what with all this rain and the last thing I need is to be abandoned to the elements. Not to mention the fact that you hid my spectacles - I might've woken up in the middle of gunfire and had my head blown off. I wouldn't want to die without my glasses; I'd be stumbling around Paradise and probably trip over the Almighty. It's not the best way to make a good first impression.'  
  
'Adrian' said Lesgle, 'you are a very strange boy.'  
  
'I'm a strange boy who allows you to lodge with me, Bossuet, so I should think you wouldn't expose me to the very real possibility of divine humiliation so much.'  
  
Courfeyrac listened to this exchange, blinked a few times and took a large gulp of his drink. 'If I ever have a best friend' he muttered, 'God spare me from becoming like these fools.'  
  
'Anyway, Bossuet' Joly asked cheerfully, 'what are you going to do after Enjolras has finished playing soldiers?'  
  
Lesgle looked up uneasily. He met Courfeyrac's eyes, silently pleading for a way out of such a terrible question. He opened his mouth but Joly continued unabated.  
  
'Well I don't know about you, old friend, but the first thing I intend to do is buy Musichetta a bouquet of flowers from Pierre's shop - lilies, she loves lilies. She thinks I don't notice these things, thinks I'm too busy studying but now she'll know - and then I'll take her for a walk in the Luxembourg. Then she'll realise how much I care for her.' He looked at Lesgle earnestly, his pale blue eyes unnaturally bright, 'you understand? I'm so susceptible to Hay Fever she must see what a risk it would be for me.'  
  
'Joly, I don't know if-'  
  
'Well' his friend smiled, nervously tilting his head to one side and brushing some stray hair from his forehead, 'I know it's not terribly romantic. I'm not like Jehan, I can't write poetry. But I'm sure she'll understand that it's the best I can do.'  
  
Lesgle nodded dumbly and sighed. Joly, misinterpreting this gesture, laughed.  
  
'I'm sorry' he smiled again, still fiddling with his hair, 'this must be boring you silly. I told you I'm not romantic but it is a nice idea, isn't it? As soon as we get out...' he smiled wistfully, 'anyhow, I won't speak of it anymore. What will you do when all of this is over?'  
  
Lesgle flushed. He looked over at where Courfeyrac had been sitting and noticed that his friend had vanished along with the wine. He cursed inwardly and looked at Joly again, shrugging. 'I don't know. I haven't planned that far ahead.'  
  
Joly looked slightly disappointed and then brightened. 'Well then' he beamed, 'you must join Musichetta and I when I take her out to dinner. After all, you're one of the family too' he hugged Lesgle again and Bossuet found himself frozen in the warm embrace. To his horror, he felt a lump in his throat and he clutched Joly to him, hoping that somehow his friend's impossible dreams might be fulfilled.  
  
***  
  
Joly was asleep again. He had nodded off half an hour later. Wine always made the young medic sleepy, either that or it made him sick. This time it had done both. Lesgle watched him as he sat propped up against the doorframe and was unable to suppress his affectionate smile. Joly appeared sickly when he was awake but when sleeping he often looked incredibly fragile. He often tossed and turned in his sleep and Bossuet suspected that the young physician was more troubled than he let on. Occasionally he would murmur as he slept. As a general rule, Bossuet tried not to listen to what he said - it seemed wrong somehow, an intrusion, which was absurd really considering how close he and Joly were. Lesgle shrugged and was about to go in search of some of Courfeyrac's wine, when he noticed Combeferre approach.  
  
'Combeferre' he smiled disarmingly, 'just the man I wanted to see.'  
  
The philosopher stared at him for a moment before recognising Lesgle's expression as the one he used when he wanted someone else to do his thinking for him. He hurriedly made to turn around but Lesgle clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
Lesgle explained that he was troubled. He was in turmoil. Well, he admitted, perhaps 'turmoil' was too strong a word but he was definitely worried. He wasn't used to worrying. Worrying was Joly's affair. He was free of concern and his duty was to cheer his young friend up whenever he lapsed into one of his brief but frequent fits of panic. It was a job Lesgle was more than happy to assume since Joly, despite being fretful and nervous at the worst of times, was generally excellent company.  
  
But now Joly was asleep and happy and completely fine. He worried about Joly. It wasn't normal for him to behave this way. It was Joly for God's sake! The boy who insisted that a headache was the beginning of the end, the boy who would lock himself in a sterilised room at the faintest hint of a sneeze! And here he was, facing certain death, and he was planning romantic walks in the park.  
  
Lesgle was not a wise man. He didn't know about denial or repression or whatever it was that Joly was currently failing to suffer from. He knew, however, that something was very wrong.  
  
Combeferre listened to all of this and nodded wisely. He offered his opinion on the matter to an increasingly bemused Lesgle.  
  
Joly, he explained, was undoubtedly aware of the situation. Joly, after all, was not stupid. Perhaps he was young and eccentric and nervous and rather irritating and-- (here Lesgle cut Combeferre off, telling him to get to the point). Anyway, the point was that Joly was almost certainly aware of the dangers he was facing. It was likely that either he was trying not to concern Lesgle with his problems or that he simply hadn't come to terms with the inevitable outcome of the revolution. Combeferre explained this patiently and in words of no more than two syllables. He then made a hasty retreat before Lesgle could ask any follow-up questions.  
  
And so it was clear that Lesgle would have to sort this problem out for himself. He gazed ruefully at Courfeyrac's wine and wished he could simply allow Joly to carry on in blissful ignorance.  
  
***  
  
Bossuet sighed for what must have been the fifteenth time that day and sank to his knees next to his friend. He had come to terms with the fact that he was going to have to talk about this to Joly - if only for the sake of his own sanity. The two of them shared all their problems. Perhaps he could help his friend. He faintly heard gunfire in the distance. He barely noticed the battle erupting.  
  
Steeling himself, he gave Joly a gentle prod. Joly woke up, rubbing his head and muttering under his breath. He adjusted his spectacles and peered at Lesgle over the wiry frames.  
  
'Humh? Wha?' Joly was never at his most coherent on being woken up.  
  
Lesgle took a deep breath, 'Joly? I, I suppose you realise that, well...' he trailed off and fidgeted uncomfortably. This was just silly, he realised, it wasn't like him to get tongue tied over something so silly. Pulling himself together, he tried again.  
  
'Joly, you do realise that we're all going to die, don't you?' Best to be blunt and get it out in the open. He hoped.  
  
Joly stared, wide-eyed, at Lesgle, bemusement, fear and laughter bubbling inside him. He let out a short, nervous burst of laughter that quickly subsided into tears. Lesgle, shocked at this outburst, immediately drew his young friend into an embrace. Joly knocked his glasses on Lesgle's shoulder and, for once, didn't seem to mind. They sat like that for several eternal minutes. Around them, a battle had begun somewhere and faraway people were fighting, killing and dying. And they knew that very soon they would join them. Until then, Joly held Lesgle and Lesgle held Joly. And they prepared for the end together. 


End file.
